Wrought-iron sentinels
stand side by side,
connected throughout
but for a yawning divide.

Ancient oaks flourish,
their roots grown through cleaves.
The electric rails’ current
moves ‘neath a quilt of leaves.

The archaic and modern
with one another stand
on this soggy crescent-
a sacred and debauched land.

The Least Interesting Woman in the World

Spoiler alert: It’s me!

Not that I didn’t already know this information. Not that I didn’t realize I lead a dull and mundane life. Wake up. Go to work. Come home. Do laundry. Many people suffer this condition of humdrumness.

I’ve done my share of rudimentary travel. I’ve been places. We go on vacation. I’m from an interesting and diverse city. But still there isn’t much to report in regards to my daily life. I used to have a good time. Then I don’t know what happened. Life ate my life.

This really has been a non-issue for me until lately. I’m suddenly having a desire to be much cooler than I’ve ever been, or ever cared about being. I have this fantasy of late, me being the disquieted, restless writer alone in her room overwrought from my attempts to create the perfect characters and scenes and using fresh, original imagery. My hair mussed from my running my fingers through it as I sit at the keyboard staring at the screen wracking my brain for just the right words. Random papers on my desk whip into the air and do somersaults before fluttering to the ground because I keep the floor length windows of my Caribbean home open to the warm, salty breeze.

Ok. My imaginary life is much more imaginative than my real life. Maybe I’m just having a mid-life crisis a little early. My hair is usually mussed, though. There’s a start. And I don’t drink Dos Equis. I do drink Michelob Ultra. And Budweiser.